Better Than The Dream

Finding more than victory at the masters national championships

My grandmother always dreamed of visiting the Seychelles, a remote archipelago in the Indian Ocean. She never went, but the islands represented something wild and exotic, the idea that life could turn into anything, the possibilities limitless.

My dream was simpler. As a child, I'd stand, having drawn a start line, on an old track behind my school, a quarter-mile swath of dirt and gravel with tufts of grass sprouting up here and there, the edge dissolving into a tangle of weeds. At the fringe of the tangle stood old metal bleachers, like skeletons, where people had once watched their favorites. Something about that track made me want to conquer it, to claim it as mine as I imagined the tracks I'd seen on TV, vitalized by lights, elite runners setting records on them, crowds in the stands clapping and cheering.

I fantasized standing atop the podium at the national championships, an official placing a gold medal around my neck, nameless, faceless people cheering me even after the race had been won. I never imagined the race, never imagined getting there, never looked to see who was clapping. But I knew the dream was precious. My grandmother always said that just having a dream made life better, richer. She encouraged me to follow mine, and to pay attention to where it took me.

Then I grew up. I went to school, established a career, and stopped running. I got married, had a son, and gained weight. My dream faded, neatly filed as an unrealistic fantasy.

Several years later, I found myself camping beneath the stars in the high desert of eastern Washington. Amazingly, I was on my way to a national championship: the 2008 USA Masters Track and Field Championships in Spokane. I was excited, but also fearful that it might be a letdown compared to the vision I'd nurtured so long ago. I wasn't world-class. This wasn't the Olympics, or even the Olympic trials. There wasn't even a qualifying time.

But it was my dream, my Seychelles.

My dream began in childhood, but the reality of making it happen had stemmed, of all places, from a childbirth class.As we were introducing ourselves, I told the group I liked to run. I hadn't been running, but it was something I missed, something that still inspired me. After the class, one of the couples told me about Team Red Lizard, a local running club.

After my son was born, I started running again, gradually working up to four miles. The weight came off and I loved the way I felt. I found energy I never knew I had, and a little bit of the old childhood magic came back.

I entered a 5K, my first race in more than a decade. Shockingly, I came in as the first woman, and that win spurred me to dream again. I recalled the name of the club I'd heard of in my childbirth class and decided to attend one of the track workouts. The camaraderie was infectious as people introduced themselves and welcomed me into the club. From that day forward, I attended the track workouts every possible Tuesday and got noticeably faster. I entered more races, winning a few, and realized that I actually had talent. Meanwhile, I made friends.

Over the course of the next year, the club's coach, Rick Lovett, became both a close friend and mentor, giving me valuable training and racing advice. I looked forward to seeing my teammates on Tuesday evenings and realized that running gave me as much a social network and emotional outlet as it did a long-term goal. I was working my way up as both an athlete and a human being.

At first, as my old dream came back, I imagined it as I once did, replete with the big lights and the smiling faces, a gold medal shining around my neck. Oddly, though, that seemed flat and uninspiring, a dream of only two, not three, dimensions. Then my vision changed to include the people I'd grown to know and love -- the runners I'd been sharing a common passion with. That's when I decided it was a dream worth pursuing.

My grandmother's dream -- the beaches of her remote archipelago, clear, blue water, the hot sun, warm white sand, a tropical forest, palm trees and bright flowers -- had never turned into a reality. Her unrequited wish motivated me even more. My 20-mile weeks turned into 35- and 40-mile weeks. I added a second speed session and upped my long runs to 14 to 16 miles. And then the dream I'd silently nurtured since childhood was real enough that I decided to tell someone: my coach.

From the beginning, he had the utmost faith in me, encouraging me even in times I felt like quitting. Through the winter of 2007, I was constantly sick, suffering everything from various flu viruses and colds to strep throat. I lost weight, dipping to a low of 86 pounds. For a week, I was barely able to run and considered giving up. "Who am I to think I can actually go to the national championships and do well?" I thought. I didn't want to embarrass myself.

Then Rick said something that changed me: "Have fun and let the clock be what it will." These words reminded me that the point was to pursue a lifelong dream and make it an adventure worth celebrating. Even as an adult, I'd been focusing on the end result instead of the journey. I decided then to make my dream a lifestyle, not a destination.

It struck me each time I ran in some unusual place just how much my runs changed a small part of my day, and in a larger context, my life. I loved the way my pursuit made my life an ongoing voyage, variable according to how creative I could be. Running was exploration. And it was me at my best.

I was finally ready to live my dream. I'd done the work. All of what I'd strived for would culminate in the race of my life, nearly two years from where I'd started post-childbirth, running a quarter-mile in three minutes, and 40 pounds heavier than I'd been in high school. I tried to imagine the track in Spokane, the mountains all around and the pine trees, clear skies, and a dry, summer breeze. It was vivid, more palpable than the childhood dream had ever been.

And now it was much more than just being the fastest. It was about the people I'd met and the work I'd put in as I pursued my goal one day at a time. Winning a medal and standing atop a podium were only small parts of what made up a lifetime's worth of wishing.

Then I arrived in Spokane and the unthinkable happened: The day before my race, I got the news that my grandmother had passed away. The day went by in a blur. I did everything I was supposed to do in preparation for a big race. I ate carbs and drank lots of water. I slept, albeit fitfully. I visualized the efficiency of a perfect race. And I thought of my grandmother and of what she'd once told me: that it's enough just to have the dream. But the dream was nothing like I'd imagined; it was harder. I'd be running with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.

I carried my hope and my grief to the line as I stared out at an August sunrise, the hint of fall already in the air. The gun went off and I bounded into the morning sun, its rays flashing off the rail as I made the first turn. I held my pace and thought again of my grandmother and her dream to visit the Seychelles. Even though she hadn't gone, having the wish had enriched her whole life. She did what I'd done. She grew up, got married, and had four kids. She had a career and a wonderful life with a loving husband. And she kept hold of her dream, never letting it go even as she got old.

At each southwestern turn, my teammates and coach cheered me on, their voices carrying me one more lap, their cheers sweet in my ears. I kicked from 300 meters out, my name in my ears as my teammates cheered me on. I rounded the last bend with 100 meters to go and started to sprint, tears in my eyes as I crossed the line and won something indescribable, something that can't be quantified.

It didn't matter that my 30–34 division wasn't the most competitive (often in this "pre-masters" division at the championships, even the gold goes unclaimed). It didn't even matter that I'd set a PR for 10,000m (40:33.67), though that was rewarding. What mattered was that I'd lived a dream that had given me so much in terms of hope, friendship, and a perspective on life that transcended the everyday. I felt the whimsy of childhood again, a sense of freedom I hadn't known for decades; I could do anything now. This was better than the dream had ever been.

Afterward, I stood atop the podium, third overall and first (the only competitor) in my age group, as an official put a gold medal around my neck, just as I'd always imagined. And this time, the people clapping were people I cared about. That night, we camped out again in Washington's high desert and talked about our races as we gazed up at the Perseid meteor shower. I remembered my grandmother's words, "Pay attention to where your dreams take you." As the meteors streaked across the sky, I realized that I could never have imagined this.